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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780764213083 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Baker Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/05/2016 |
| Pages: | 352 |
| Product dimensions: | 8.30(w) x 5.50(h) x 1.10(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Like Never Before
By Melissa Tagg
Bethany House Publishers
Copyright © 2016 Melissa TaggAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7642-1308-3
CHAPTER 1
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
Subject: Hello?
Hi, Logan,
Yep, it's me again. Amelia Bentley. I know, you'd think after three unanswered emails I'd give up. But reporters — even small-town Iowa ones — have spunk. Except, hmm, maybe you're some Lou Grant–type and you hate spunk.
In that case, I've got persistence, determination, and, Þne, a fair bit of stubbornness.
Which is why I'm writing you this third email to see if you have any interest in coming back to work for the News. Since Freddie passed away, we're short a reporter. I know you live in LA now, so this is probably crazy talk. But you told me yourself you miss the newspaper world. So I can't help asking ...
Amelia Bentley
Editor, Maple Valley News
p.s. It just occurred to me that maybe the reason you haven't replied is you don't remember me. I was the reporter at your sister's boyfriend's nonproÞt's grand opening last month.
(World record for most possessive nouns used in one sentence?) We talked for a few minutes. You complimented my Nikon.
* * *
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
Subject: RE: Hello?
Amelia —
I do remember you. And your Nikon. Sorry that I haven't responded until now. My inbox is like something out of a horror movie.
And I remember telling you I miss reporting. I have to be honest: That might have been mostly small talk. Yeah, I miss it now and then. But I don't have a ton of desire to go back to writing about school board meetings and really tall asparagus. :)
— L
* * *
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
If that's a crack at how often small-town newspapers run photos of oversized produce ... well, then, okay. (This is Iowa, after all.)
So would you consider coming back if I promised to cover ALL the school board meetings?
Just kidding. I knew it was a long shot. But aren't the best reporters the ones who chase long shots?
— Amelia
p.s. Is signing off with just an initial an LA thing?
* * *
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
There are long shots and then there are looooong shots. But hey, it's almost graduation time. Check with the area colleges. I bet you can Þnd a journalism major in need of a job.
— Logan James Walker (There. More than an initial this time.
Happy?)
* * *
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
I don't want a journalism major. I want you.
And yes, I realize how that sounds. Don't get smug or anything! I'm just saying, your award plaques still line the ofÞce walls. When you worked here, subscriptions topped 5,000. Freddie talked about you constantly. If you change your mind ...
— Amelia Anne Bentley
* * *
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
The only thing I'm smug about is the fact that I finally figured out the Lou Grant reference in your earlier email. Mary Tyler Moore Show, right?
By the way, I should've said earlier: Sorry about Freddie. He was a good guy, great editor. I wish I could've made it home for his funeral. When I heard he died, I kept kicking myself for not keeping in better touch since moving out here.
— Logan
* * *
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
He knew you were busy. And he always talked about how proud of you he was.
Truthfully, Freddie was ready to be done with the newspaper biz long ago, too. The flood last year did a number on him (not to mention our equipment). He was in the process of selling the paper and retiring before he passed. He only passed on the editor mantle to me a month ago. It's all up in the air now — we don't even know who our current owner is.
That's not meant to be a guilt trip, by the way. Just letting you know why I'm grasping at straws and trying to talk an Iowa boy home.
— Amelia
* * *
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
I get it. And I do appreciate you asking me to come back. Believe it or not, I did actually consider it for a few nostalgic seconds. Most of my Þve years at the News were good ones. But my life and work are here now.
Besides, I'm not a reporter anymore.
* * *
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
Aw, come on. Newspapering gets in a person's blood. You don't just stop being a reporter.
— Amelia
* * *
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
Whatever you say, Hildy.
* * *
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
Hildy?
* * *
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
You're a reporter. Figure it out. :)
* * *
On days like this — when sunlit snowflakes fell like tiny, glistening jewels and a crisp quiet brushed through the cold — Amelia Bentley could almost believe she'd never led another life.
Never stood in front of an altar one morning to begin what a hastily scrawled signature, smudged by tears, would eventually end. Never carved open a chamber of her heart, only to later lock it tight, hiding away the goodbye she'd never asked to say.
Amelia pulled open the front door of the Maple Valley News office, bells chiming overhead as she stepped into a cocoon of warmth and familiarity.
Today there were no brick-heavy yesterdays. Only the inky scent of newsprint and the embrace of this wintry town — her town. Well, and the yipping voice at the back of her mind reminding her she was —
"You're late." The News's receptionist peered over thin bifocals, silver-tinted hair coifed with enough bobby pins to pick every lock in the county.
Amelia loosened the turquoise scarf at her neck, camera bag slinking down her arm. "I know. Just need fresh batteries for my flash. But Mae ..." The rubber soles of her fur-lined boots squealed against the laminate floor as she slid to the reception desk. Her voice lowered to an awed whisper. "It's snowing."
"You think I don't know that? You're tracking it all over my space."
Amelia glanced down at the puddle forming around her feet.
"Sorry. It's pretty, though, don't you think?"
"If it were December, sure. But it's the middle of March. No way you'll hear me calling snow pretty in March."
"You just said snow the way most people say oral surgery. Or taxes. Or beets."
Mae only harrumphed and turned back to her computer. Amelia nudged the camera bag back up over her shoulder, stomped the last of the snow from her boots, and hurried through the room that contained the ad department — if two women and a part-time intern counted as a department. She waved at Kat, Mikaela, and Abby as she passed. Pin-ups of ads for this week's issue dangled from the cloth-covered cubicle wall separating their desks, and sunshine spilled in through generous windows.
She pushed through the newsroom door.
Just inside, Owen swiveled in his chair. "You're —"
"Save it. Already got the third degree from Eeyore at the front desk." Amelia dropped her bag onto the sprawling island counter that gulped up most of the newsroom's space. Back issues of the News and other area papers covered the high tabletop.
"The fire chief's already called twice."
"I'm not even five minutes late. You told him to keep his pants on, right?" She bypassed her own cluttered desk and bee-lined for the row of pale blue cupboards lining the back wall. She hoped that at some point she'd remembered to pick up a pack of spare batteries.
Owen stood, straightening the gray vest that matched his slacks, lavender shirt underneath. He was the only sports reporter she'd ever met who dressed like he belonged at InStyle magazine rather than a small-town weekly with a circ of barely 3,500. He perched on the corner of his desk, arms folded. "No, I did not tell him to keep his pants on. I didn't think that the best choice of words, considering your little incident last year."
Amelia opened a cupboard, hiding her almost-smile. "How was I supposed to know they'd just gotten back from a drill? How was I supposed to know that door in the station led into the room where they change?"
Nineteen volunteer firefighters in various states of undress. Some things you couldn't un-see.
Nor could she, apparently, live down.
"Twelve months I've endured the taunting of the entire Maple Valley Fire Department." But ooh, score, a foursome of double-As loose in the cupboard. "What are the chances they'll drop it one of these days?"
"Not gonna happen. They love teasing you. Same with the police. The EMTs. Every farmer at the co-op." Owen moved away from his desk, unzipped her camera bag, and pulled out the flash.
Behind him, the mockups of this week's paper still hung from two long, metal strips on the opposite wall, held in place by magnets. Twenty-four pages, final edits visible in red ink. Four spreads less than the issues they'd put out even just two months back.
But short a reporter and with both circulation and advertising down, Amelia was doing good to churn out a paper at all.
Her gaze slid to the dark closet of an office in the corner. How many mornings did she waltz in to work, still half expecting to see Freddie settled in his raggedy chair, slurping on a vanilla shake for breakfast? The window in his office looked out on the riverfront, where late afternoon brushed shades of tangerine and pink through the sky's wispy clouds, and the Blaine River, ice-frosted and calm, cut through the center of town.
"Admit it," Owen's voice cut in. "You may not be a native, but you're the whole town's kid sister."
"If thirty counts as kid." But Owen had a point. She'd wandered into town a wounded heart three years ago. The people of Maple Valley had begun sweeping up her broken pieces before she'd even decided to stay. She'd spent the time since doing all she could to repay that gift. Made sense that she'd earned some friends along the way.
"You're forgetting Mae, though." She took the flash from Owen. "She's never warmed to me."
"Mae's never warmed to anyone. Except maybe her cat. By the way, Cranford called while you were out."
A groan worked its way up her throat, and she chucked the flash's dead batteries at an already-overflowing trash can. Missed. They hit the wall and clunked to the floor. "Way to bury the lede."
"You can't keep ignoring this."
"Why? It's been working okay for a few weeks now." She reloaded the flash.
"Amelia —"
"Besides, lawyers are still hashing out if the sale was even final before Freddie died. Until I know for sure Cranford Communications is the new owner of the Maple Valley News, I don't feel any obligation to take C.J. Cranford's calls. Especially since I know exactly what he'll say." She plopped the flash back in its bag. "He'll do to us what he's done to dozens of small papers — dissolve us and roll us into a larger regional pub. He owns the Central Iowa Communicator, you know." A four-color beauty of a paper with a tri-county reach. She could admit to ogling the Communicator's zingy headlines and pretty photos each week.
Didn't mean she wanted to see it swallow up the News.
Owen only shrugged and picked up the batteries rolling across the floor.
Maybe she shouldn't expect him to share her worry. He was a twenty-four-year-old transplant from Omaha with his eyes on grad school. She'd seen the applications he worked on during his lunch hour, the ones he minimized on his computer screen whenever she walked past.
He couldn't understand Amelia's ties to this town, the paper. Didn't know — couldn't know — how they'd filled up the hollowed-out spaces inside her. "Did Cranford leave a message?"
"Mae's the one who took the call, but according to her Post-It —" He walked to Amelia's desk and peeled the note from her monitor. "He's coming to town and wants to meet with you."
"When?"
"Doesn't say. But there's a number."
"He's going to have to wait until after the fire department photo." Which could end up being one of her last tasks as editor. Because if Cranford did own the News now, what were the chances she'd still have a job after he swooped in? Even if he did keep the paper open, he'd probably take one look at her empty résumé and her nonexistent college degree and wonder why Freddie ever hired her.
Owen stood close to her now, fingers still wrapped around the strap of her camera bag. "Look, it's going to be okay."
"I'm not so sure, but I appreciate the optimism." She started to turn, but Owen's hold on her camera bag halted her.
"Just return the call, okay? Meet with the man." His expression took on an abrupt intensity. "You'll impress him like you do everyone."
She blinked at his shift in demeanor but reached up to pat his cheek. "You're a good guy, Owen Berry. But I gotta run."
He released her bag, and she angled around the counter but stopped halfway to the door. "Hey, does the name Hildy mean anything to you?"
He shook his head. "No, why?"
"Just a reference that has me stumped." Two weeks and she still couldn't figure it out.
She retreated the way she'd come. Mae was helping a customer as she approached the receptionist's desk — a tall woman with the kind of burnished chestnut hair Amelia could only dream about and lipstick a jarring shade of magenta. Mae glanced at her as she passed. "Amelia —"
"I know, I'm late." She swung to face Mae, arms out. "If Chief Daniels calls, tell him to hold his horses." She fingered on one glove. "And if C.J. Cranford calls again, tell him he's got the wrong number."
"Amelia —"
"Better yet, pretend you called him and try to order a large pepperoni pizza. If he laughs and goes along with it, we'll know maybe, just maybe, he's not the corporate buzzkill I'm imagining him to be."
"Amelia!" Mae barked.
Amelia fumbled pulling her second glove from her pocket. "What?" And why was the woman at the counter looking at her like it was a hand that'd just fallen to the floor, not merely her glove?
Mae gestured to the woman. "There's someone here to see you." Her words were slow, measured. "This is C.J. Cranford."
Amelia's breathing hitched. Her glance darted from the woman to Mae and back to the woman. Oh no. No, no, no ...
The woman stepped forward, held out one palm. "You must be Amelia Bentley. I'm C.J., but you can call me Corporate Buzzkill, if you like. Now, that was a large pepperoni?"
* * *
A few neatly arranged words, clever and concise, shouldn't be enough to make or break a reputation.
Then again, if they weren't, Logan Walker wouldn't have a career.
"I can't believe we're driving forty-five minutes in stupid LA traYc just to find a napkin from dinner three nights ago." Impatience rattled in Theodore Tompkins's voice and the drumming of his fingers on the armrest of the passenger's door.
"Four nights." A blast of cool from the car's rasping air-conditioner chafed over Logan's skin. He may have lived in California for a good seven years now, but the Midwesterner in him still hadn't adjusted to eighty-degree weather in March. "Trust me, it's a piece of rhetorical brilliance written on that napkin. You and the senator will be glad we fought the freeway to get it from my apartment."
He glanced over at his friend, sandy blond hair still leftover from the man's past as a competitive surfer. These days, Tompkins was all pressed suits and glossy-hued ties.
Not that Logan was any di7erent. Sure, he'd loosened his tie into a droop, unfastened the top button of his shirt, and abandoned his suit jacket in the backseat before they'd left the firm. But just like Tompkins had deserted his surfboard and tan, Logan had traded in the life of casual jeans and tees, with a reporter's notebook in his back pocket, plenty long ago.
Logan veered his Ford four-door around an SUV and then onto an o7-ramp. Only ten minutes from his apartment building now. Maybe he should've waited until tonight to ditch the oYce and go in search of the napkin he'd used as a notepad earlier this week, but frankly, he welcomed a midday stop at home. A chance to see Charlie for more than his usual too-few minutes at the bookends of each day.
Besides, his house was on the way to tonight's legislative fundraiser.
Theo pulled out his phone. "If what you wrote on that napkin was so brilliant, why can't you remember it?"
"Because I'm a thirty-four-year-old single dad whose brain is at capacity. This morning I called the nanny Kristy instead of Krista." The phrase If looks could kill had taken on a whole new meaning. "She pretty much eviscerated me with her scowl."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Like Never Before by Melissa Tagg. Copyright © 2016 Melissa Tagg. Excerpted by permission of Bethany House Publishers.
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